


The Little Courtesies

by theredspool



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2224812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredspool/pseuds/theredspool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair heads to Paris for the summer, hoping to get away from the tangled disappointments of Manhattan, but it seems one of the biggest ones has followed her there and intends to get friendly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Courtesies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Empty_Scribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empty_Scribbles/gifts).



> This doesn't technically take place at any specific time in the Gossip Girl timeline. I pictured the kids in their late teens, but there are basically no allusions to the show. Think of this story as a floating island of irksome romance within the Gossip Girl universe.
> 
> ETA: Realized I left some placeholders in like an idiot. All fixed now!

Summer in Paris. It was almost enough to soothe the old ache of her father’s departure—the reason she arrived on the plane all alone when it should have been her mother, her dad, and herself, anticipating macarons and shopping and a visit to the Louvre as a family, like they used to. Now Daddy lived here full-time; Blair wondered if it even felt special for him anymore.

Charles de Gaulle was surprisingly quiet for late-May; Blair chalked it up to arriving midmorning on a Tuesday. She’d left Dorota behind for once; apparently babies—even those raised in Queens—need their mothers, something Blair had never quite learned. So she claimed her luggage—patterned in tiny houndstooth and edged chicly in brown leather and gold hardware—alone.

The wait at Customs was mercifully quick; she breezed through, smiling, her near-fluent French smoothing her way. Blair had missed using it and it came more slowly than she liked; she willed it to feel more natural on her tongue.

She burst out into the sunshine, valise skimming smoothly behind her on two wheels. She had opted for Parisian comfort over glamour today: loose, patterned pants, a white blouse and—of course—a scarf looped around her throat. But, in true Blair fashion, the blouse was tailored within an inch of its life, and her flats were vermillion red to match her scarf.

She lifted her sunglasses briefly to scan the pick-up lanes. She had texted Daddy; he should be here by now.

Her phone pinged, and she sighed irritably before she even checked the text.

_Traffic on the Autoroute. Roman is driving like a maniac, so we’ll be there in ten. Can’t wait to see you, Blairbear!_

Great. At least the area wasn’t swarming with tourists; Blair spotted a few international businessmen and women toting Blackberries and creased trenchcoats, and a tousled young man smoking illegally by a pillar. He glanced up as though he’d felt her eyes on him. Blair froze.

“Blair Waldorf.”

He’d said it softly, but it seemed to ricochet like a bullet, echoing around the white steel overhang.

Carter Baizen was disowned and disgraced, his trust fund in limbo and his feet in Birkenstocks. She pointed her hips away from him and showed him her profile, tilting her nose up. It was reflex now; Blair’s radar was sensitive. “Carter.”

He tossed the half-smoked cigarette away and drew nearer, a film of smoke issuing from his pursed lips; at least he had the grace to direct the stream away from her face and clothing. “You look…French.”

“You look…homeless! Hoping a yuppie will take pity on you and give you their doggie bag from Pré Verre?”

“You haven’t changed a bit. Same old tightly-wound killjoy. Always kept Nate on a short leash. How is he, by the way?”

Blair blinked and pasted on a taut smile that she hoped looked convincingly impatient rather than unconvincingly obfuscating. This virtual stranger, this unwashed trustafarian was the last person who needed to know about their breakup, especially since Blair planned for it to be a short one. A quick once-over confirmed his only phone was a cheap flip model—no need to worry about Gossip Girl’s blasts resounding overseas. “Fine. Spending the summer on the boat with the Captain. Sailing.” It was true, after all.

“How quaint.” Carter put his hand in his pockets and crossed one foot over the other, his eyes—possessing a hollow quality, but crinkling warmly at the corners—bored into hers. “What brings you to Paris? Scored the front row of some fashion show?” He resented her for her money and travel, even as he stood before her in his wrinkled-but-obviously-designer trousers.

“My dad lives here.” It came out quicker and more irritably than she’d intended, but—for some reason—she didn’t want Carter misjudging her trip. This wasn’t a typical jet-set, and, truthfully, Blair was nowhere near as well-traveled as Serena or Kati or even Nate. Occasionally the Waldorfs stole away to Italy or England for the food, art, and architecture, but France was It. Now its importance had been raised even above a prime, romantic vacation spot—now it was, by default, her second home. Just like any other child of divorce, she was split between homes. But, in her case, she had a view of the Park in one and she got a fresh baguette every morning in the other. Perfectly decorated and outfitted penthouses in the two greatest cities in the world, an ocean stretched between them.

Carter nodded, the challenge in his eyes receding. “Oh.”

Blair craned her neck to peer down the pick-up lane. Where the hell were Daddy and Roman and why weren’t they going any faster?

“I’m on my own.” Carter edged slightly closer, aligning his shoulder with hers. “Decided to take a few months to study economics. I’m interning at the AFD.”

“I didn’t ask, actually.”

“Someone’s been perfecting her Parisian prickliness. I’m just making conversation.”

Blair put her hand up. “Alliteration aside, I’m not interested in spending my vacation talking about government spending or hanging out with hypocrites.”

Carter barked out a stunned and appreciative laugh. “Who’s a hypocrite, princess?”

Blair turned, cheeks glowing hotly. “The one who shunned his upbringing, but remembered to bring along enough checkbooks to fund his little spirit quest. Let me guess—you have a standing appointment at the _Les Furieux_ with a tall bottle of absinthe? Have you found yourself at the bottom?”

His smile faded a little, but a hint of amusement still hovered at the corner of his mouth. “Blair, I’m here to study money for fuck’s sake. And I just arrived, same as you.” He gestured behind him; a battered leather duffel was slumped next to the trash can a few feet away.

“Oh.”

She swallowed, feeling an irksome combination of mortification and self-righteous fury. Unfortunately, the fury was draining out of her, fast. His eyes were locked on hers.

Then, a parade of comical beeps. Blair jerked her gaze away from Carter and saw her father’s car pulling up, Roman at the wheel. Her father was hanging out the window, arms waving and curly head glinting in the sun. “Blairbear!”

“Daddy! Impeccable timing, as usual.” She pulled away from Carter and flounced to the car, throwing her arms around her father as he emerged and kissing him on the cheek.

“I’m glad you didn’t mind waiting. Who’s your friend?”

“Carter Baizen,” Carter offered, extending his hand as Blair said, “He’s not my friend.”

“I went to St. Jude’s,” Carter added, looking almost collegiate and uncorrupted.

Roman shook Carter’s hand enthusiastically. “What a lovely coincidence! Where are you staying?”

Blair shifted her weight angrily, ignoring Roman when he kissed her cheek.

“I have an apartment on the left bank. Rue de Beaune.”

“Oh, we’re so close to there! Would you join us for dinner tomorrow? I’m making Blair’s favorite.”

Carter looked over Harold’s shoulder and grinned at Blair, who was fuming. “Which is?”

“Portobello mushrooms with oyster stuffing. And I know this is unorthodox, but I’m making pumpkin pie for dessert. Blair has loved my pies since she was old enough to eat graham-cracker crust.”

“Daddy, I’m sure Carter is very busy, and I’m personally looking forward to a long soak and a stroll down the Champs Elysees before dinner. Shall we?”

She tugged her father’s upper arm, but Harold pulled away to give Carter one last handshake. Carter shot Blair a piercing look that felt like a challenge. “Thank you, Mr. Waldorf. I’d be happy to come to dinner. Can I bring anything?”

Blair glowered back, but Harold was oblivious. “Please, call me Harold. This is my partner Roman, and please don’t worry about bringing a thing. We have everything in hand.” He jotted down the address on his business card and handed it over. “Dinner is served at eight o’clock. Prepare to be amazed! Pleasure to meet you, Carter.”

“Thank you, sir! And, as usual, it’s a special pleasure to see you, Blair.” He winked and waved as Blair leaned her way into the car’s cramped backseat. She grimaced at him and showed him her profile, framed prettily by the car’s window.

“He seems nice,” Harold smiled, glancing sideways at Roman. “And so handsome. It’s good to know you’ll have a friend your age around, and not just us old fuddy-duddies.” He grasped Roman’s hand; Roman kissed it and they exchanged a warm smile.

“Gross,” Blair grumbled, but her quickly-smothered half-smile betrayed her affection. “And he’s not my friend,” she added again, as an afterthought.

~~

No, he wasn’t her friend, which is why she was waiting for him up on the balcony, hoping to spot him first and arrange herself as pleasingly and intimidatingly as possible in the sitting room below. She had dressed with extra care, skipping a turn around the Cimitière du Montparnasse to shower, shave, and select the appropriate ensemble. She had chosen a simple, flowing black dress that fell just above her knees, and pinned her hair up into—what else?—a French twist. Another scarf was knotted around her neck, soft gold this time, with matching sandals. Yes, it would do.

The view from the balcony wasn’t expansive, since the building faced a bustling street, but it was picturesque: the street was wide and dotted with sidewalk cafés and shops with their doors thrown open to catch the breeze. It was hot, but not oppressive or rank the way the city could get. Even from here, Blair smelled the Seine, which wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was familiar and somehow fresh. _Home away from home._

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!”

Oh, damn. She had let her eyes wander; he had spotted her first. He was peering up at her with a boyish grin, squinting against the evening sun, one hand in the pockets of his khakis and the other clutching a paper bag. He looked nice, but he clearly wasn’t trying to impress her. How annoying.

“It’s almost dusk, you moron. And this is the wrong country entirely.”

His grin widened and he lifted a hand to shield his eyes. “She speaks! Oh speak again, bright angel!”

“Ha ha.” She smirked in spite of herself; every girl wanted to be Juliet at some point, right?

She clenched the balcony and lifted her chin; his grin shrank to a smile that was equal parts smug and charmed.

“So,” Carter squinted, amused now. “Gonna let me in?”

“Oh. Right.” She flushed, which probably only made his smugness worse. _Ugh._ She forced herself to descend the stairs at Princess Grace pace, each sandal touching the step lightly, noiselessly. She leaned down to pet Cat, who wound himself around her ankles when she reached the last step.

When she finally opened the door, Carter was leaning on the wrought-iron railing that lined her front steps, his cigarette almost done. “About time, Princess.” He stubbed it out, careful to toss the butt out into the gutter instead of dropping it in their bushes, and immediately popped a breath mint.

“You obviously found a way to entertain yourself. Do you always sneak up on unsuspecting women when they’re trying to enjoy the sunset in peace?”

“Only the ones that want me to.” He winked.

Before Blair could respond with an appropriate scoff, Harold peeked his head out of the kitchen behind them. “Carter! Come in!” He emerged in an apron, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder. “I’m just about to make the salad and Roman is taking the pie out of the oven to cool, so please go ahead into the sitting room. I set out some wonderful sterlet roe and crackers. Help yourself.”

“Mind if I crack this open, sir?” Carter produced a bottle of red from the paper bag.

“You know your wines! Please do. We’ll be in shortly.” Harold winked at Blair. “Blairbear, you look lovely. I was wondering what took you so long up there!”

Blair very nearly facepalmed. “Thanks, dad.”

She led Carter silently to the sitting room, Cat trailing behind. Carter spotted the bar cart and retrieved a corkscrew. “Have you ever had a bottle from this harvest?”

“I drink wine, I don’t study it.” She perched on the white settee and glanced sidelong at Carter’s hands as he pulled the cork free. “…what’s so special about this harvest?”

“Let’s let it breathe for a few minutes, and I’ll let you tell me.”

Blair pursed her lips, swallowed.

He poured and set the glass before her on the coffee table. “Not yet.” He poured his own and swirled it; she rolled her eyes.

“I know it seems clichéd, but there is a reason we do it.”

“We?” Blair lifted her perfect eyebrows, expectant.

“Sommeliers. I took a course while I was traveling through France and Italy; I even stopped over in Australia for a bit to test out my certification. I worked for a few weeks on the vineyard that produced this very bottle.”

“This is Australian wine?” She had intended to sound annoyed—everyone knows real wines come from Europe—but her voice came out softer than she had wanted it to.

“It is. But this is quite a bit older than either of us.” He winked again, and smiled when her eyebrows dipped in distaste. “Not a fan of the wink? Serena always liked it.”

With that, Blair reached forward and snatched the wineglass, taking a huge gulp. _Pretentious prick._ Whether it had breathed properly or not, it was good wine. Very good. Which she did not want to admit, so she spread some caviar on a cracker and ate that instead.

“Look,” Carter continued, extending his hands, palm up, in surrender. “I didn’t come to antagonize you—“

“That’s a first.”

“—although you make it easy.”

Blair frowned and leaned back into the settee, chin tucked to her chest like a child. She sipped her wine.

“What do you think of the wine?”

“Passable. A little too spicy for me. But I like the cherry.”

“You have a good palate.”

“Of course she does!” Roman entered, a smudge of flour on his face. “She learned at her father’s knee. Dinner is served.”

Blair jumped up, wine glass tipping dangerously. As the slipped by Roman, she wiped off the flour. “I can attest to Daddy’s good taste.” She pecked him on the cheek for good measure and walked to the dining room without a second look at Carter.

Dinner went as well as could be expected; Carter and Harold discussed Carter’s upcoming internship and Blair critiqued the Fall Collections with Roman, one ear firmly locked on the conversation happening across the table. Unfortunately, Carter was charming her father like crazy; she shuddered inwardly at the thought of Daddy developing a weird crush on one of her frie—

Her peers. One of her peers.

By dessert’s end—and after a few too many glasses lf that excellent wine—Blair was so desperate to escape the sight of her father and Carter bonding that she did the unthinkable: volunteered to do the dishes.

“Are you sure, Blairbear?” Harold was looking at her with a strange and annoying squint, like he was attempting to peer into her brain one layer at a time.

“Of course!” she chirped, gathering the silver.

“Blair’s right; the chefs should never have to clean up.” Carter stood and began unbuttoning his cuffs to roll them to the elbow.

“What are you doing?” Blair demanded, then amended her tone. “I mean, you’re a _guest._ ”

“And what better way to show my thanks?” he shot back, eyebrows swooping downward over his smile, making him look devilish; an expression she was much more accustomed to seeing on Carter than the smarmy smiles he’d been shooting her father.

Harold and Roman looked between them; the staredown was blistering.

“Roman and I will just retire to the sitting room while you two clean up.” They skedaddled, linking hands and sharing a look that landed somewhere between spooked and knowing.

Blair, arms akimbo, watched them go from her peripheral vision, then counted a few beats until they arrived in the sitting room; she heard someone shut the door.

“What’s with the act?” she hissed, striding forward and grabbing Carter’s shirt. She dragged him bodily into the kitchen, swinging door pitching wildly in their wake.

Carter shook loose and straightened his collar. “What act?”

Blair, breathing heavily through her nose, began filling the sink and lathering a sponge. “Oh, don’t play coy with me. The ‘bring me home to Daddy’ act. The loafers, the hair product, the stock market chat. I’m surprised you didn’t start comparing cufflinks!” She slapped the surface of the water with her hand, spotting her gold scarf.

“I’m not wearing—“

Blair brandished a soapy whisk. “You know what I mean.”

“I have to say I’m surprised, Blair.” Carter was shaking his head and chuckling. “You seemed to hate the unwashed, Birkenstock-wearing ‘hypocrite’. But you don’t like the coiffed, charming economist any better. I figured that was your type. Not that Nate is very good at math, but money guys have always been creative with numbers, anyway.”

Blair ignored the jab at Nate, although it stung to remember him and the breakup. “I just want everyone to see you for what you are.”

“And that is?” His voice was a low purr, mouth quirked up expectantly.

She fumbled, just for a moment. “A rogue. A rake! A liar and a criminal who doesn’t care at all about where he came from or the traditions he grew up with.”

“Strong words.”

“Do you deny it?!”

“No.”

“Aha!”

She went to turn, but found herself fenced in by Carter’s arms; his mouth hovered by her cheek.

“Do you prefer the rogue?”

Blair swallowed; the she could feel the warmth of his body, but he hadn’t touched her yet.

 _Yet?!_ Blair’s brain screamed. _Regain control!_

“And you like stuck-up princesses, right?” Her voice barely shook behind the diamond-hard edge.

“Precisely.” His lips brushed her cheekbone. “You’re ruining your scarf.” Gentle fingers reached up to pull the knot apart. The silk slid off her neck; she could feel his breath on her skin.

“We’re in my father’s _house_ ,” she hissed, sounding more disappointed than scandalized.

But Carter wasn’t bothered. “Wanna take a walk?”

Blair, her back pressed to Carter’s chest, considered this. Was it a bad idea? Almost certainly. But Carter had proven himself to be downright courteous and gentlemanly when he wanted to be. And Daddy liked him…

And, ooh, now his hands were on her hips. Her thoughts drifted briefly to Nate, but the image of him lacked its usual sting. _Oh well,_ she thought, placing a damp hand over Carter’s and sliding it down her thigh. _I can get mine._ “Let’s go.”?

She left the pots to soak and dried her hands carefully, feeling Carter’s eyes on her all along. Her stomach dipped; a not-unpleasant combination of guilt and arousal. Without glancing at Carter, Blair put on her sweetest smile and strode to the sitting room. “We’re having a walk! Carter’s never been to the Cimitère, so I’m going to walk him over.”

Roman and Harold blinked at each other.

“Blairbear, it’s ten o’clock.”

“I’m not going to take him _inside,_ Dad, just going to show him where it is. I’m trying to do something nice for our guest.”

That got Harold smiling. “And will you be walking Carter home after this jaunt to the Cimitère?”

Blair shrugged one shoulder, hoping she didn’t look too interested. “Maybe.”

“Very well. You kids have fun. Be safe.”

Blair knew that her father was referring to the streets and not sex, but she couldn’t help blushing. Carter entered and said his goodbyes, shaking hands and kissing cheeks and promising to visit during the summer. It was embarrassing, Blair was sure, but oddly endearing.

When they finally stepped out into the warm night, Carter reached for her hand.

“Oddly romantic, for a rogue,” Blair mused, half-suspicious.

“Blair, unlike you, some of us know we can be more than one thing. Your Highness.” He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and flipped open the lid one-handed. He held them out. “Care to break out?”

Blair watched as he drew out his own and lit it, smoke spiraling elegantly into the night. Suddenly her fingers itched. She put a hand out.

He smiled, eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise, but surprise nonetheless. “Want to try first?” He held out his own, which she took, delicately, between two fingers. She imagined herself as Holly Golightly and inhaled.

It didn’t taste good, exactly, but it was appealing to watch the cherry light up as she breathed. She didn’t cough. Carter watched, eyes gleaming with interest.

They crossed to lean against a tall stone wall—probably a church courtyard—and passed it back and forth, watching each other’s mouths close around the end. After a few silent minutes, Carter handed her the butt. “The last drag?”

She smiled, feeling naughty, even delinquent. “Sure.” She pinched it between her finger and thumb and inhaled, eyes angled down to watch the cherry fade to ash. She exhaled and looked up into Carter’s face, which was very close now.

“May I kiss you?”

Maybe it was because she didn’t expect him to ask, but to take; in that moment, all the little courtesies of the last two days, few hours, added up in her mind. Gentleman rogue; delinquent princess.

“Yes.”

Summer in Paris. It was enough to soothe the old aches.

 

 


End file.
